Page 77 of The Shattered Rite
She didn’t know it, but that moment might have already changed her fate.
Or his.
Malric cursed under his breath and pulled out the old leather-bound book he always carried. The pages were filled with ink and secrets, scraps of overheard prophecy, ciphered maps, old marks of dead kings, and sketches from his own hand. Symbols of flame. A dragon’s eye cradled by a crescent moon.
He flipped to the newest page. At the top, in neat, sharp ink: The Dragonrider. Eliryn. Subject marked by prophecy. Eyes like storm clouds before the storm.
He paused.
Then added, almost reluctantly: Not what I expected.
Malric leaned back against the stone, letting his head rest for a breath. His muscles ached beneath the stillness, trained to stay coiled, never softened. But lately… something had cracked his indifference.
It had been years since anyone had looked at him without fear. Longer since someone saw him without knowing what he was.
She had. Somehow.
Even if she didn’t yet understand what she was looking at.
His fingers drifted to the scar under his chin, the one no armor could cover. It hadn’t healed right. Left by someone he’d trusted once, an echo of a lesson burned deep.
Don’t hesitate.
But Eliryn made him hesitate.
And that alone made her dangerous.
Not because of her growing power.
Because of what she might make him remember. The boy before the blade. The name before the silence. The man who might have chosen another path, if someone—anyone—had given him the chance.
He stood quickly, shoving the book back into his cloak. Too much stillness in this place invited regret. He couldn’t afford that. Not yet.
The next corridor was narrowing, darkening. A change was coming.
Before he vanished again, he looked once more in the direction she’d gone. Not with cold calculation this time, but something like… reluctant hope.
“I’ve hidden the monster—for now. But I can't wait for the moment she meets him.”
Then, without sound or farewell, Malric melted into the dark again, just another shadow among many.
But his thoughts lingered behind like footsteps he hadn’t meant to leave.
Chapter 13: The Space Between Blades
“Strength alone will not save you. But it may carry you far enough to choose something better.”—Letters of Eianya Rell, First Flamekeeper
The silence that followed was nearly holy.
Eliryn moved through a narrow corridor of glistening stone, its floor cracked but dry, the mist thinning with each step. Here, the air was cooler. Calmer. The scent of blood and smoke that had lingered in the maze’s heart faded to damp moss and old dust.
A breathing space. A lull in the storm.
She stopped beneath a broken archway and leaned her back against the cold wall, finally letting her sword lower completely. Her arms trembled, not from fear, but from sheer fatigue. Sweatclung to her spine. Her heart still hadn’t quite decided if it was done racing.
“Vaeronth,” she murmured, “am I crazy for still feeling overwhelmed by everything?”
The dragon’s voice coiled through her mind like smoke curling through rafters. Calm. Present.
